After The Fall
by lalaland01
Summary: Sydney Bristow is now an authoress by the name of 'Ivy Williow', Sherlock is now 'Spencer Henley', and must find a job to support himself after his inconvenient 'death', Nadia Santos has been resurrected and is hiding out in Argentina, and John Watson must try and make sense of the mess Sherlock has left him with. JohnxRachel SherlockxNadia SydneyxMycroft


**AN: Hey all! So, I have recently been rewatching Alias, and have come to the conclusion that I simply must write the ultimate Alias/Sherlock crossover. At least I hope it will be the ultimate Alias/Sherlock crossover.**

**Anyway, on with the show!**

**WARNINGS: Sexual references, some violence, swearing.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but the plot and any OCs.**

* * *

Sydney Anne Bristow was dead. Completely, utterly and totally dead. She and her baby girl Isabelle Nadia Bristow Vaughn had died the same night as her parents and the man she loved, and never again would they breathe.

In Sydney's place, was Ivy Beatrice Willow, a single woman living on her own in the middle of London.

In Isabelle's place was a little girl by the name of Olivia who was adopted by an American family when she was just over a year old. Sydney had made the decision to give up her only child after Michael's death, which was by no means an easy decision. It was, however, a necessary evil, as she knew that as long as Isabelle was a Bristow woman she would be practically doomed to live the same life as every single one of her other family members.

'Ivy' was a published authoress, who wrote many stories telling of espionage, betrayal and unbelievably wicked criminal masterminds, of course accompanied by an epic side plot of love and lust. Her books were well known, though they were written under an alias, ironically. An alias of her alias in a way. The authoress of those tales was Maria Anne, a fitting name for a romance novel writer. At least 'Ivy' had thought so when she came up with it.

She worked at the local bakery, and was reasonably good at baking, a skill she had developed out of necessity. Her shifts were 5am to 5pm every weekday except Thursday, and she often went in to work when other people were sick as she needed the money. She lived in a reasonably sized apartment and ate mostly take-out, and so her once ridiculously in shape body was now much softer than it once was. Not as much hard muscle as there once was, but this was expected seeing as she now baked cookies and bread instead of kicking-ass at least once a week.

She did run in the mornings from 4am until 4:45, at which point she would arrive home, shower and walk down the street to work. On her days off she 'slept in' until 5:30am and then went for a run. A strict routine was really what kept her sane anyway.

Everything in Ivy's apartment was spotless all the time. Every item had it's place, and every particle of dust had to be removed. The sheets on her bed were changed and washed once a week, and the pillows twice a week. The bathrooms were bleached to perfection every fortnight, and the dishes were done nightly. There was never any pile-up of filth, never any dirty clothes on the floor. Everything had to immaculate. It was a control thing.

This lifestyle certainly worked for her, and very well too. There was no time to feel lonely or sorry for herself. There was always a goal or a need that had to be met, and this was how she kept going. How she kept moving. Ivy had no friends outside her book characters, but she never once felt the need to find any. There was a time when she considered getting a cat, but dismissed this thought

It was a strange life for a young, single woman like Ivy to be living, but she would never trade it for anything.

And so, one day, when she was surfing on the internet for inspiration, she stumbled across a certain blog, and immediately took to it as it told real tales that baffled even her mind, that had been a part of many elaborate plots and schemes previously, both on paper and in real life. Tales of an intelligent man solving crimes right there in the city using nothing but his quick thinking and remarkable intellect. The tales were all told by his close friend, a Doctor John Watson, who had a rather interesting point of view on his friend. She found it a welcome and inspiring distraction from the regular life she had been forced to take up, and she knew each of the cases back to front.

However, domestic bliss seemed to not be what was intended for her, as she soon began to have slight money problems. Ivy knew there was always the option to call someone from her past and ask them for some help, but her determination to keep her past in the past won over. And so, as it had many times in the past, her stubbornness really was more trouble than it was worth as she had to take up an part time job in order to make ends meet.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was dead. Well, just as dead as Sydney Anne Bristow and Isabelle Nadia Bristow Vaughn. He had taken the name Spencer Henley. He was not awfully fond of it, but he felt it necessary to change his name, yet important to maintain his initials.

He had been forced to move around for the months following his fall from St Bart's, resulting in his 'death', but he never found somewhere with quite the _excitement _of London. It was dreadfully boring, especially considering he had been forced to refrain from deducing as much as possible, and his status as the world's only 'Consulting Detective' was just as dead as he was supposed to be. It was a dreary existence, one that he struggled to maintain, and boredom clung to him like the plague.

He eventually found himself travelling internationally, as he no longer felt safe and secure in Britain. He remained clear of America and other English-speaking countries where Sebastian Moran and Mycroft were sure to have connections, and steered himself toward France before taking a trip to Brazil, and finally landing himself in Argentina. He found no problem in learning new languages, though he was already somewhat fluent in French. Different dialects and such intrigued him, thus distracting him from his boredom briefly, but he would soon return to twiddling his thumbs, now with a new language under his belt.

He travelled Argentina for some time before realizing that all the money he had set aside for himself in the case of an emergency was...substantially depleted, to put it nicely. No longer able to simply live however he pleased, he was faced with a rather harsh reality...

Sherlock Holmes had to get a job, and not one he made up himself.

* * *

Nadia Rossi (aka Nadia Santos) was in way over her head. Literally.

Her lungs began to burn as she remained still, her hair wafting over her face and tickling her nose as the water tossed it this way and that. Finally giving in, she thrust her legs against the sandy floor, propelling herself toward the surface. She burst through the water, breathing deeply as she took the air into her lungs at last, relishing the feel of it rushing down her throat, making her colder than she already was. The water was freezing, but not quite cold enough to risk hypothermia.

Yet.

However, the sun was setting, and it was soon going to be dark, and Nadia begrudgingly swam over to the jetty where her towel and other belongings sat. She pulled herself out of the water, sitting on the now soaked wood as she threw her towel over her shoulders, shivers racking through her body as the wind assaulted her skin. She sneezed, annoyed at the salt water that had managed to make it's way up her nose, and rubbed at the water dripping from her chin and the tendrils of hair that had fallen out of the bun she always had done up on her head.

She finally pulled her legs out of the water and slipped her feet into her flip-flops, frowning as she saw how wrinkled the skin on her toes were, thanks to the amount of time she spent in the water. She wrapped the towel around her waist, tying it firmly so it wouldn't slip on the walk home. She shouldered her bag and began to walk, headed away from the shore and in the direction of her home.

It was a Thursday, and a particularly cold one, and she had spent the better part of the day sleeping. This was not a rare occurrence for her on her days off, as she worked herself to the ground often. She was a member of the local police force, and spent most of her time diving into the cases of petty theft and murders committed by hot headed locals. Nothing too exciting, but it was just dangerous enough to give Nadia that adrenaline kick she she desperately desired.

It had been years since she had been resurrected by her father, and she spent her time trying to rebuild a life away from him. He had managed to escape the stone prison Jack Bristow had place him in (quite wisely, of course), but not without a vial of the Rambaldi potion that had managed to grant him eternal life and bring him back after Sydney shot him dead. He had then gone to great lengths to have Nadia's grave dug up and her body brought to him without the CIA noticing, which was no small feat, and all it had taken was a few drops of the potion in his daughter's mouth to bring her gasping back to life.

Of course, she had not reacted to her own resurrection as he had expected, as she fled from him, disgusted by his actions and all that had come from his obsession with Milo Rambaldi. She did not deserve the life she had been given, the life borne of obsession, murder and greed, and she remembered this each day as she lived the somewhat mundane life of Nadia Rossi, a simple female police officer in Rio Grande, Argentina.

She did not date, by her own choice of course. Her work consumed her life, and this was how she liked it. Well, 'like' was a strong word. This was how she tolerated it. Going in for extra shifts, working herself into the ground...it was the way she lived. It was the only way she had to live. After all, what else was an ex CIA agent supposed to do with an ordinary life? She had no family, no friends...she could not risk re-entering their lives while her father sought her out.

So, she ran for at least an hour in the mornings, worked for at least 20 hours a day, swam for at least 4 hours on her days off, and survived on fish and wine, with the occasional candy bar while she was at work. This was how she got by, and nothing about that would change.

Until Spencer Henley decided to pay a little visit to the town of Rio Grande.

* * *

As a result of her financial situation, Ivy moved into a smaller three bedroom flat. However, she only paid for one bedroom in the flat, and the landlord, Mr Brussels, intended on renting out the other room to whoever would pay the highest.

First, there was a druggie, but he didn't last long. He could hardly keep up with the rent when he was stoned, after all, and Ivy complained to Brussels until he had the man evicted.

Next there was a young woman who seemed solely focused on her career, much as Ivy probably should have been. She left early and got home late, and most of the time it was like there was no one there. She stayed for a few months before being transferred elsewhere for work, and the second room was once more empty.

And it remained so for at least a month, and Ivy began to wonder if Brussels would ever find someone to occupy it.

And then, out of the blue, a rather disturbing event took in all the local papers read '_Reichenbach Fraud Commits Suicide_' and '_Death of False Detective_', which resulted in the loss of the blog she had enjoyed reading so much.

Two weeks later, Brussels showed up in the flat (he rarely knocked), decided to inform Ivy of a development in the status of the second room.

"I've got someone comin' round to 'ave a look at the place tomorrow," he told her shortly, running a hand through his grey hair. "'ave the place clean by then."

"Sure," Ivy replied, biting her lip to prevent herself from saying something rude. He was certainly not a conversationalist by any means, and evidently was not aware of how to say good bye, or notify another that he was leaving, as he simply and turned away and let himself out.

* * *

Arvin Sloane had his criminal empire completely rebuilt only weeks after his resurrection, thanks to the work and dedication of Julien Sark. Despite his death, Arvin Sloane still had many connections in the criminal world, a fact which he did not forget for a moment during his time trapped underground.

Julien Sark had worked exceedingly hard to excavate the site of the final Rambaldi showdown, and to pull loose the rubble created by Jack Bristow's supposed 'sacrifice'. After many months of digging, he had managed to finally get down to the rotten body of the former CIA agent, which had been immediately discarded, and he finally found the surprisingly alive body of Arvin Sloane. He had believed in Rambaldi's prophecy, but evidently not as much as Sloane.

Between the two of them, they had made use of all of Sloane's connections to get a hold of Nadia's corpse, and he revived her using the Rambaldi potion. She, of course, was not too impressed with this fact, and had quite happily knocked both Sloane and Sark out cold and murdered the guards they had in place. She had not been seen since, and understandably so. She was her mother's daughter, after all.

They had also sought to track down Sydney, who had mysteriously disappeared after the death of her husband. Michael had been murdered soon after they were married by an old enemy of theirs, but Sydney had managed to escape with her life and that of her young daughter, Isabelle, but neither mother nor daughter had been seen since. Despite being a crime lord, Sloane remained unable to find the woman and her child, which frustrated him almost as much as his own daughter's absence.

Despite failure on those fronts, both her and Sark took over the crime world. Any and all surviving Rambaldi followers worshipped at Sloane's feet, including Sark, and served him tirelessly, lying, cheating, manipulating and murdering at his command. It was the foolproof network of crime. None would ever betray Sloane, and this was a fact he enjoyed all too much.

And so, with Sark as his right hand man, Sloane ruled over the criminal side of the world and took down any and all competition.

Except for Jim Moriarty, of course. Sloane left that task to Sherlock Holmes, who seemed to have killed himself in the process of taking out the infamous consulting criminal.

Oh well. One less enemy for the immortal man to have to destroy.

* * *

**So, there it is! Please review! :)**


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